The Exorcism

He sits on the balcony, wondering what to do. Enough time has been wasted looking at the translucent raindrops pattering from the roof’s edge, and onto the open platform. They fall continuously, with increasing frequency, just like every second he wastes. Like Odin, the Norse king of gods has two ravens on his shoulders, only his housekeeper and Nokia button phone keep him company. No one else to call. His son perhaps? Who he shooed away from this house?

The old man struggles to get off the chair as if a huge weight is on his shoulders. The picture is enlarged momentarily; a lifetime of his hard work resides in the concrete walls and tinted windows. This house he built resulted from the pinnacle of his success, his enterprise—that his son did not want to be a part of. As he steps inside the house from the balcony, we see his shadow of ego, forever latched onto him, as he walks through the threshold.

The scene changes, from the cosy bungalow to a neighbouring street, going past a bunch of shrubs, happy to shed dust and soot after the refreshing burst of rain. Past the chai shop, there is no time to stop and smell the Horlicks being made. Then a younger man is seen watching the diner’s sign board flicker in flashy, neon colours. His eyes follow the vibrant mix of vegetables in his spiced chaat. The pungent aroma hits his nose. He almost takes a bite but stops, his spoon held midair. A large shadowy figure beside him breathes down his neck. It has been annoyingly attached to him and follows him wherever he goes, he cannot escape it. Perhaps it was wrong to leave father?

His unwanted companion’s face darkens at this thought. The son eats a spoonful of the chaat and frowns as he tastes a deep bitterness. He has had his share of ‘bitter’ all these years, and it seems to tap into his inner thoughts. His father had been proud of his booming business. He wanted his son and only heir to take over the mantle. Was it his father’s fault? These thoughts swarm around his mind and refuse to let go. The black figure likes that even less.

No, it was his fault.

Tiny beads emerge from his eyes, not because of the spice. He then looks up. The clouds are clear, and his tormenting stalker is gone. He knows what he has to do, what he should have done all those years ago.

His father remains behind moss-covered walls and bougainvillaea bushes. The house is timeless as always, unlike its inhabitants. He has left the balcony but still stares dreamily at his tiny garden below. Just then, the roar of an engine can be heard parking outside the rusted iron gates. The father’s expression freezes in shocking disbelief. A young boy enters, his young boy. The old man is not the only one who is surprised. The ravenous parasite of ego standing next to him cannot believe it either and stands still when this old man’s son looks up at the balcony and smiles.

That smile is so genuine, so reassuring. It caresses the father’s face, and a tear falls down the ground along with the raindrops. The smile is a blade that stabs the old man’s ego, sending it reeling back. Laced with the most lethal pinch of positivity, the ego is finally exorcised from its owner.

That is all that is required to make the old man rush down the staircase and meet his son, down below, for an embrace in the rain.

(Image source- Internet)